


An Ideal Holiday

by ArgylePirateWD



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Loneliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:01:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21944776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgylePirateWD/pseuds/ArgylePirateWD
Summary: For men like them, this day is more haunted than Halloween.Neither Harold nor John is much of a fan of Christmas anymore, but that doesn't mean they want to spend it alone.
Relationships: Harold Finch & John Reese
Comments: 6
Kudos: 33





	An Ideal Holiday

**Author's Note:**

> Much as I love all the lovely shippy fluff getting posted, this is what popped out of my brain when I went "what if holiday fic tho?" in front of my word processor. Um. Oops? Set sometime shortly after "Dead Reckoning," which seemed like a good point in canon for angsty-but-not-super-angsty Christmas friendship fic. 
> 
> Also, Christmas is my POI-finishing anniversary. It'll be one year since I first watched "return 0" tomorrow. \o/ (Just ignore how AO3 says this was posted on the 25th. Time zones. /o\\)
> 
> Content Notes: Canon-typical suicidal ideation

Decades have passed since Harold could last say he truly _enjoyed_ December 25th. Loss and a steadily-growing sense of cynicism have a tendency to suck the joy out of occasions touting the importance of togetherness and the like. And in a city filled with millions of people—or even a town as tiny as the one he grew up in, he suspects—every street is a shimmering minefield full of reminders that he is alone.

The lack of a distraction in the form of a number is...disappointing, to put it mildly. He doesn't miss how John's face falls when it's announced, either. In some ways, they are both so very much alike it's staggering.

His flat, "Merry Christmas, Mr. Reese," is as purely obligatory as the former Olivia Ingram's reluctant standing invitation to her annual dinner, lacking in any of the cheeriness that's supposed to come with this _most wonderful time of the year._ The gifts—plural—that John will find waiting for him came out of great deliberation and care, but Harold is fully aware of the lack of feeling in his own words.

So is John.

"Sure," John says, in that disbelieving way of his, how he says, _Obviously_ , when Harold talks about respecting someone's privacy, clearly not missing the implicit, _Bah, humbug,_ in Harold's salutation. Harold is no Ebenezer Scrooge—many a person will feast and receive gifts this holiday season thanks to his charitable contributions—nor is he a Grinch. No one's holiday will be deliberately ruined at his hand. As a matter of fact, more than a few people's celebrations were likely made possible by his and John's life-saving efforts.

But there are certain times of the year when Harold feels his losses most keenly. Christmas is not the absolute worst—that dubious honor goes to a certain day in late September—but it is one of the most glaring. Twinkling lights serve well to illuminate the corners of his life where people are missing. Carols and songs bring back memories of absent voices, of Nathan drunkenly stripping during a rendition of "Santa Baby" at far-too-many-years-old, of Grace hurrying to change the radio station with a wrinkled nose whenever it played "Little Drummer Boy" or blinking back tears during that saccharin "Christmas Shoes" song, of his father singing "Silent Night" off-key and confused in the middle of a summer hailstorm, of his mother—

"Are you okay?" John asks, and—oh. When did his hand land on Harold's shoulder?

"Of course," Harold replies, sharply. "Why wouldn't I be?"

John's eyes are as gentle as his hand, soft and full of excruciating kindness. "Same reason a lot of people aren't okay this time of year." _Like me_ goes unspoken, but neither unheard nor unfelt. So many loved ones lost, on both sides of this partnership. For men like them, this day is more haunted than Halloween.

And as soon as John leaves for his empty, echoing loft, Harold will go to an empty, echoing penthouse, the quietest of all of his residences, isolated by a cushion of wealth and with only a dog for company. Then Harold will spend his day looking down on a city alight with cheer he doesn't feel, countless cups of tea in hand until he trades them for glasses of something much stronger, and he'll ache in a way no painkiller can touch unless he drugs himself into a stupor.

John's hand slides down, splaying between Harold's shoulderblades, and the small comfort of it nearly hurts. "Why don't you come over to my place?" John says. "I'll make lunch—and dinner, if you're not sick of me by then—and we can do something that has nothing to do with—what was it you called it last year? This 'obnoxious, over-commercialized glittering nightmare that is Christmas?'"

"Considering you were talking about buying Christmas presents when the CIA very much wanted to _shoot you_ , I thought my complaining was warranted." Though his opinion on the commercialization of Christmas hasn't changed, either. He could spend hours— _has_ spent hours—ranting about how the whole affair has become an obnoxious, corrupted, exhausting gift-grab, and how he doesn't understand why people still voluntarily participate in the farce. But that spiel comes with painful memories, too, of him and Arthur ranting together at MIT while Nathan sat back and wound them up further, each of them with coffee mugs full of heavily-spiked, terrible eggnog in hand...

Is there any moment in his life that hasn't been tainted by grief?

"No," John says, thankfully interrupting Harold's thoughts before they can gather more steam, and Harold can hear the smirk in his voice, "you were just afraid I'd go out and buy mistletoe or everything from the Twelve Days of Christmas or something."

"If you're hoping to get Harold Partridge up in a pear tree, Mr. Reese, I'm afraid my tree climbing days are many, _many_ years behind me. And I've no room in my life for any of the other gifts." Or mistletoe, for that matter.

"Not even the swimming swans? The geese a-laying?" John makes a contemplative noise. "Maybe I could dump those on Lionel..."

Oh dear. He hopes John is joking, but knowing John... "Do you _enjoy_ being shot? Because gifts of geese _will_ get you shot. A lot." He pauses a moment, considering. "Potentially even by me."

"Not a fan of geese, huh?" Spoken like a man who's never had any dealings with geese. Harold turns and gives John a glare over his glasses. "Then I guess it's a good thing I'm only planning food." He slides his hand back up, and squeezes Harold's shoulder. "And, okay, I might have a present for you."

"You didn't have to get me anything." But John _does_ have a present for him—two, in fact. A plum-colored wool scarf and a pair of black leather gloves. Harold saw him purchase them during one of his daily surveillance checks, and caught John surreptitiously measuring the length of his fingers while he was napping one day as well. There's also a stocking full of dog treats for the spoiled menace currently snoring at full volume nearby, who will most certainly enjoy them all.

"He tells me that now," John says lightly, teasing, and moves to sit on the edge of Harold's table, out of the way of Harold's computer equipment, a hint of a smile on his face. "You're really hard to shop for, you know."

"Still disappointed that you lost the eBay war the other night, _247birdwatcher?_ " The answering huff of laughter is unnecessary confirmation of his suspicion that he'd been battling John. For once, he hadn't checked; hadn't felt he'd needed to, really. "You should know better than to enter into a bidding war with a billionaire bookworm, Mr. Reese." A small laugh of his own escapes as he speaks, bringing with it a lightness Harold hasn't felt all week. Hasn't felt, in fact, since a few perilous seconds and chance were all that stood between the two of them and oblivion, and they won.

Sometimes it's stunning to realize that he is grateful he survived.

"But if you're certain your ideal way of spending your holiday is with your grumpy old employer—"

"Friend," John corrects, sincere, earnest, and it hits Harold harder than he would've expected. Oh. Friends. They're friends now. Yes, that seems right, and yet...

This venture wasn't supposed to lead to that. Sometimes he has suspected it was a subtle method of committing suicide for the both of them, cloaked under the thinnest veneer of plausible deniability. But finding someone whose company he enjoyed, who he was willing to spend time with, who he was willing to die with? Who was willing to spend time with him? Having it laid out plainly, in one simple, complex little word leaves him more choked up than he would've expected.

"Friend," Harold repeats, voice going uneven, and he swallows around the lump in his throat, and turns his chair away, unable to face John with this much emotion threatening to come out. "If you're sure that—"

"Yeah," John says, and nudges the arm of Harold's chair, so Harold's facing him again. "Yeah, I'm sure." He settles a hand atop Harold's, warm and heavy, his callused skin rough and dry, his touch gentle. "Come spend Christmas with me. It won't be festive, and I, ah, can't promise it'll even be fun—" He gives Harold a wry half-smile. "—but it might be nice? And there'll be pie."

"Pie?" Harold hopes it comes out more suspicious than intrigued; his weakness for dessert will be the death of him one day, he fears. "What kind of pie?"

"Apple," John replies, "and chocolate." At Harold's raised eyebrows, John tilts his head in a hint of a shrug. "I was in the mood for baking this morning."

Both pies Harold is quite fond of—though the list of typical pies he doesn't like is rather short. "And you didn't lead with this information because..."

"Maybe I was hoping you'd come over for my company and not my kitchen skills, Harold," John says, voice light.

"You invited me over for _lunch_ , John. And potentially dinner." Harold pushes himself up from his seat, stifling a groan at the horrible twinges in his back. Another strike against the season: the cold is so very hard on sore bones. John, thankfully, neither offers assistance nor comments, though his hand does twitch very briefly in Harold's direction.

Bear does not have the same respect for Harold's pride. A concerned canine nose nudges Harold's palm, and Harold absently strokes Bear's muzzle and head as he rights himself. Once he's fully composed and putting on his coat, he continues, saying, "I was assuming some sort of use of your kitchen skills was involved, since you said you intended to make it."

"True." John is openly smiling now—a rare treat, yet so much less rare than when they first met. And infectious. Harold can't help smiling back.

Goodness, he missed having a friend to banter with. And while every day likely draws them closer to some inevitable implosion set by his secrets, he is immensely grateful for the reprieve from his loneliness that John brings. Not just during the holidays, either. But it is, admittedly, especially welcome now. Despite his curmudgeonly view of the holiday, he was not looking forward to spending it alone.

He pauses at the coat rack, and he turns to John. "Thank you," he says, and if more emotional sincerity than he'd normally like slips out, well, 'tis the season for sentiment and all that.

John gets up, and clasps a hand on Harold's arm. "No," he says, barely above a whisper, "thank you. I wouldn't be here without you. Wouldn't want to be here without you, if I was."

Oh, how it always hurts to think of how close he came to losing this wonderful person before he even met him, potentially even at John's own hand. "John, I—" Before John can interrupt, Harold forces himself to say what he's thinking. "I am quite glad to know you. And I'm not someone who typically says such things, but you are very dear to me, and..." And he has run out of words. He shrugs, helpless. "I'm glad. That I know you."

Not wanting to wrangle his emotions any longer, Harold decides it's time to shift the conversation. Winding a gray scarf he already knows will be replaced soon around his neck, he says, "Now, I believe you promised pie."

The briefest look of relief flashes across John's face before he says, with feigned solemness, "I did promise pie. Two pies, even." John takes care of getting an eager and ready Bear leashed up, which requires little effort, and starts toward the door with him, stopping to wait for Harold. "And lunch."

Double-checking that his system is shut down—never can be too careful—Harold heads after them. "Is there vanilla ice cream to go with the apple pie?" He's going either way, but just to be playful...

"Of course."

"And no other holiday festivities?"

"Besides presents and pie? None. No songs, no lights, no movies, no mistletoe..." With a look of mischief, John adds, " _Probably_ not any geese."

Harold grins slightly. "In that case?" He waves a hand forward. "Lead the way."


End file.
